Let The Games Begin

Chapter 2: Part 1

"Honestly, Helena. Don't purse your lips like that, or you'll end up permanently looking like you've just found out that you have the clap."

"Mother," I mumbled half-heartedly, warily eyeing my reflection in the vanity mirror.

I didn't recognize the girl looking back at me. She was expertly made-up, her golden-brown hair clipped in a tidy bun, blush giving her cheeks a rosy tinge while the diamond teardrop earrings that hung from her earlobes made her shine . She was in a red dress that clung to her figure like a second skin and made her breasts seem bigger than they really were.

She was an imposter.

"Look at you, Helena," said my mother, her hands on my shoulders. "You are a picture of true beauty. No man in his right mind would be able to resist you."

Just one.

Alistair hadn't been able to look at him when I'd told him.

"You can't be serious, Helly," he'd said in a broken voice when I'd cornered him in the stables.

Yes, his voice was broken --like my heart-- and there was nothing either of us could do about it.

"I have to do this," I'd told him, and if he touched me, I wouldn't be able to do this. I wouldn't.

He'd touched me, and that had been my undoing. I'd broken into tears, sagged against him when he'd pulled me into his strong arms. My resolve had weakened.

"You don't have to do anything," he'd murmured into my hair. His voice had been like warm sunshine on my back after swimming. "You don't have to do anything but love me. We can still run away. We can still do that, Helly."

I'd raised my head to look up at him through my tears. "I can't do that to my family. We have nothing."

"You have me."

But I didn't. I didn't have him and I would never have him.

It was time I faced that.

Now, I was standing outside the house, waiting for the car the king was sending. When it finally came, all sleek lines and white interior, I felt my anxiety build up. The king was inviting me to the palace. The king of England.

What if I wasn't up to his standard? A poor imitation of the worldly women that surrounded him? What if I was about to make a fool out of myself?

I was confused because I couldn't decide whether I'd be disappointed by rejection, or pleased that that would mean I could be with Alistair.

By the time the car drove up the long driveway and pulled up in front of the steps that led to the palace entrance, I was a bundle of nervous energy. Suddenly, it felt stupid to get all dressed up for what was to be a brunch date. My mother had picked out the outfit, the earrings−she'd practically picked out the tone of voice I'd be using today.

I was helped out of the car as if I couldn't move on my own, and once outside, the reality of this situation hit me in full force like a strong gale of wind. I was about to meet the most powerful monarch in the world.

I was going to be sick.

"Control yourself, Helena," I mumbled to myself, likely making the driver assume that I was a loon. "Don't make a fool out of yourself. Not today."

Head held high, I allowed myself to be escorted up the stairs and through the large doors. My heels echoed on the floor. I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep it from gaping at the opulence that surrounded me. Compared to the royal family, my family and I were paupers.

I needed time to process this.

Before I knew it, I was sitting on a claw-footed divan with a large spread of food on a table before me. It wasn't the dining table I'd expected. Sitting on a couch was already putting me at ease, so much so that my hunger threw all etiquette out the window when I stuffed a scone in my mouth. I figured I'd at least finish the damn thing to keep my stomach from rumbling while King Simon asked me what my name was.

This was how he found me−with my cheeks puffed out with a scone and crumbs on the front of my dress.

"Your Majesty," I tried to say, but what came out was more along the lines of Or Ah-Ess-Ee.

I choked, painfully so, and reached for the glass of juice that had been poured out for me. The king got to it first, positioning himself beside me on the couch to press the rim of the glass to my lips and allow me to drink. After another minute of trying to chew as quickly as humanly possible, I chanced a look at the king and found him smiling.

"Compliments to the royal baker are in order, I presume?"

I nodded, wanting to salvage whatever dignity I had left. "Certainly, Your Majesty. They're mouth-wateringly good. To die for. Literally."

The king laughed, his blue eyes dancing with the same mirth. "I'll be sure to pass it on. Please, call me Simon, and I will call you Helena."

"Of course. Simon."

How wasn't I in awe of this powerful, handsome man in the navy-blue suit and onyx cufflinks? How wasn't I tongue-tied and foolish right now? One word: Mother.

Her voice was in my head, reminding me about what was at stake, about the future we would have if I were to marry the king. It was enough to put me on edge and put me at ease at the same time.